


Non Sequitur

by Bimo



Category: The Nice Guys (2016), The X-Files
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Character Study, Crossover, Future Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bimo/pseuds/Bimo
Summary: Oh, Holland March, what on Earth have you stumbled into this time? Just when everything seems lost, Holland March gets a visit from the patron saint of all hopeless causes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had been wanting to write an _X-Files_ story ever since I did a complete re-watch of seasons 1-5 in the spring of 2016. When I eventually stumbled across _The Nice Guys_ almost one year later, something in my crossover-loving brain just went "click". So I sat down and wrote this little piece here.
> 
> "Non Sequitur" turned out such an incredible oddball that at first I had no idea on whom I could possibly inflict it for proofreading and second opinion. Nonetheless I wanted to share this little ficlet, just to see how it floats. 
> 
> My deepest thanks go to the ever brilliant Scapeartist, who came to the rescue. Thanks to her generosity and skill, I'm far happier with the second version of this story than I was with the first. :)
> 
> Please be aware, though, that the story comes with a caveat regarding the depiction of mental health issues. I take those seriously, and I tried my best to handle them as well and responsibly as I could, playing rather by an _X-Files_ playbook than real life.

NON SEQUITUR  
by Bimo

**Los Angeles, November 1997**

Since Mulder had seen his seen his fair share of looney bins over the years, he recognised _Rosewood Hill_ as one of the more gentle, free-spirited ones. According to the leaflet handed to him at the entrance, the institution had been founded in the late 1960s under a radiant hippie moon, by a bunch of then younger doctors who had taken their copy of _One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ to heart and set out to change the world for the better. No Mildred Ratchet lurking around. Instead, the large-boned male nurse who led Mulder through sunlit corridors was greeted more than once or high-fived by patients. 

Big on rights, big on choice. 

To Mulder, the briefing that the clinic’s head psychiatrist gave him on Holland March’s mental state felt more like a lecture. 

“Look, Agent Mulder,” she said. “I’m fully aware Mr. March might or might _not_ have seen something that’s crucial to your investigation. But still, the second he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore, you leave him in peace. Whatever he’ll tell you won’t stand a snowball’s chance in court, anyway. Have I made myself clear?” 

“Yup.” 

The fiercely protective Dr. Karen Gunderson sighed as she got up from her desk chair. 

“Alright then, let’s go.” 

On their way out through the office door, she turned her head towards him, her grey-green eyes watchful and vivid, however not as hostile anymore as they had initially been. So perhaps Gunderson had finally realised that he, too, knew damn well he had to tread lightly around Holland March. Psychiatric aspects aside, a lot of it came down to common sense, really. 

Veteran alcoholic, failed suicide attempt five weeks ago, after what must have appeared a deeply unsettling bout of paranoia. So much of what Mulder had already known about March’s case came from the paper trail he had been chasing. But where he had been drawing conclusions from bits and pieces gathered in tabloid rags, Gunderson had been treating a flesh and blood patient. The deeper, more nuanced picture that she painted, made it perfectly clear March’s current issues were merely the tip of the iceberg. 

_Just hope for the best_ , Mulder thought, as they walked down another bright hallway decorated with abstract art. 

Eventually they found March in the second floor day room, sitting on an orangey sofa near one of the windows. A small group of patients was engaged in some sort of board game. Someone was reading. No TV. 

“There he is,” Gunderson said. “Just like I told you, Mulder. Extrovert at heart. He’d rather be among people than alone in his room.” 

The mid-fiftyish man she pointed to, had the soft, doughy face of someone who had recently gained a good sixteen pounds to a tall, slender frame, because of illness and medication. Newly-bought, decent-looking jeans and a shirt that went well with his eyes and greying hair, though. Whoever was looking out for him, probably family, obviously cared about March’s well-being. 

“Do you want me to introduce you to him?” 

Mulder shook his head, not wanting Gunderson to influence March in either direction. Ironically enough, he believed the good doctor would have approved of his strategy. Once Gunderson had left, Mulder stood quietly and silently for nearly two minutes, doing nothing but observe the way Holland March was aiming at a waste paper basket with a small squadron of paper planes. Seven misses, two spectacular hits, neither of which resulted in any visible emotional response. If anything at all, March seemed like he was struggling for visual focus. 

“Hello there,” Mulder said softly, after March’s last plane had spiralled into a pillar and crashed to the floor. 

“Oh, hi. Usually I’m much better at this.” 

“The paper planes?” 

“Yes. It’s not as stupid as it seems.” March looked up, searching for words, the smile on his lips about as apologetic as it was helpless. “Watching them fly takes my mind off things,” he added. 

Mulder smiled back. “I sometimes watch baseball reruns.” 

“Jeez, isn’t that pointless?” 

“Maybe. Would you mind if I sat down and talked to you for a minute?” 

“You are not from the insurance company, are you?" March asked. "I mean, your suit, your tie. Who on Earth would wear a tie like that, if he doesn’t have to?” 

“No insurance. Promise.” 

“Ah, good.” 

There was audible relief in March’s voice as he said this. Mulder assumed that the man would be a vivid and captivating talker under happier circumstances, just not right now when all the usual verbal filters which protected people from strangling each other were down and out, and perhaps with them also a good deal of March’s capacity for perfectly linear conversation. 

“ _Rosewood Hill_ ’s nice, isn’t it?” March said after a few moments of silence. He broke eye contact, looked around the room, swallowed. “You know, I once told Holly that if I ever should lose my marbles, start drinking again, or do anything stupid or fucked up like that, I would rather end up in Rosewood than anywhere else. Does that sound crazy to you?” 

“Actually, that’s one of the sanest, smartest things I’ve heard in a while,” Mulder replied. The idea resonated inside him more than he wanted to admit. 

“How come you knew the place, Holland?” 

“Professional, not what you think, man. Couple of years back, one of the therapists here had a real messy divorce and needed some pictures.” 

March paused, then reached for the chest pocket of his shirt. 

“It’s Holly who brought me here. Told her I don’t want any visits, though. See, that’s my daughter Holly.” 

Before Mulder had any chance to reply, March handed over two crumpled Polaroids, both a few years old at best. The first showed a pretty blonde, about Scully’s age but considerably taller, beaming with joy, in a wedding dress. The second, though from a different time, struck Mulder as equally happy. A birthday party in what looked like March’s agency office. One mermaid-shaped cake, three adults (Holly, Holland himself and an older, more heavy-set man, whom Mulder couldn’t quite place, probably Jackson Healy, the guy March was running his little detective agency with). Healy and Holly were each holding a toddler in their arms while March blew out the candles. 

Mulder flipped over the photo to read the inscription. _To the best granddad in the world. A Happy 55th, Holland!_

“You know, it’s only a few years back that she started talking to me again. Said she didn’t want to get married without her Dad,” March explained, with the quietly desperate gaze of someone who had gotten to this point of the story often enough to at least try postponing whatever gut-wrenching punch would come next. 

“I can’t be with Holly and the twins anymore. It’s just not safe, and she shouldn’t see me like this. Never again. Six whole years of fucking sobriety to win back her trust after all the crap that I pulled. And then I screw it all up and start seeing moth people.” 

March drew a sharp breath, and another, and then a breath after that. 

And there it was, Mulder thought. Just a half-sentence mentioned in passing, but still enough for him to hold on to and run with it, if he played quick and dirty enough. Secretly he cursed the day Scully had called him patron saint of all hopeless causes. Mulder had even gone so far as to flat-out lie to Gunderson about his reasons for speaking with Holland March. It wasn’t Gunderson, after all, who probably needed the strange, hard to grasp truth more than anything else. But how to convince your one single witness that, no, he had not been completely delusional? 

“Shhh, it’s okay, Holland,” Mulder said and gently touched March’s shoulder. “Did your moth people have pale green wings with reddish spots on them? Because if so, they were actually females.” 

March froze, trembled. 

“Who the hell are you? Nixon? Angel of Death? You don’t really look like Nixon, though he used to wear ties like you do.” 

“Holland, I’m real. Just as real as those moth people are. Can we talk about the night you first encountered them on that beach?” 

“Why? I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t want to.” 

“It’s important. Here, look for yourself.” Mulder took out the wallet containing his FBI badge and ID. 

Thankfully March’s curiosity won over his panic. “Could I hold it?” he asked, once he had regained control of his breathing. 

“I…, I don’t wanna toy around, it’s just that my eyesight is screwed. I used to have pretty close to 20/20.” 

“Sure,” Mulder said, hoping that the weight and feel of the badge, its own inherent icon magic, would do their part to ground March a little. 

Patiently he watched as March examined the small print and photo longer and more thoroughly than most people did. Whatever the problem, onsetting presbyopia, meds, or something between disbelief and amazement, caused March to rub his eyes and vary the distance between himself and the ID card several times. 

“The badge’s real, I’m real, Holland. Would you trust me enough to go for a walk? I’d prefer to talk somewhere more private.” 

“There are never that many people out in the garden. Not so late in the afternoon.” March said. 

They went outside and walked on the grass. And while Mulder did his best to explain about the moth people, who they were and where they had come from, it was neither the evidence nor the neuroscientific explanation which did the trick, but a replica of a 13th century Japanese drawing, elegant and silvery as moonlight. 

March relaxed and let go of his doubts. 

“So they are harmless and peaceful, and almost everybody who encounters them forgets about them right on the spot?” he asked. “And you are telling me I fucking can’t, because of some minor brain damage I suffered years back?” 

“Essentially yes. Once seen, you can’t unsee them ever again. And some of them notice that and follow you around because they are curious.” 

“I think I can live with that. But where am I going from here?” 

“You take one step at a time, Holland. One step at a time,” Mulder said. In a perfect world, he would have turned around now and disappeared into the Californian sunset, a wizard in a dark grey suit, wearing a foulard patterned tie just like Nixon used to. But a few yards away from where he and March were standing, a lawn sprinkler system turned on and Mulder leapt to the side to stay clear of the spray. 

March remained where he was since the drops barely touched him. “Look at you. So you come all the way to out here for a pair of wet trousers.” 

Mulder smiled at the thought. 

“Far more than that.” 


End file.
